


One Month

by Aethelflaed



Series: ILL OMENS: The Quarantine Fics [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Boredom, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Isolation, Light Angst, Lonely Aziraphale (Good Omens), Lonely Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Quarantine, References to Depression, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23708365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have been in quarantine for a month, isolated, alone.The strain of it begins to wear them down...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: ILL OMENS: The Quarantine Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707424
Comments: 32
Kudos: 148





	One Month

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written on the morning I had been in solo self-isolation for a full month.
> 
> It reflects my feelings that day, which were...not great, but also my hopes in the end.
> 
> This story is not light-hearted like the first two, but I think it's something many of us can relate to...

It had been a month.

Aziraphale woke up on his sofa. Ever since breaking with their sides, he and Crowley had been a bit more human. The naps were the latest development. Every once in a while, his head became so clouded he couldn’t think anymore, and the angel had to lay down and rest for a few hours.

He wasn’t sure what time or even day it was when he opened his eyes. Well, it wasn’t dark through the window. Not night, at least.

Adjusting his tie, Aziraphale sat up and reached for the book he’d put aside. There were eight books on the table, all carefully marked with a piece of paper around the middle of chapter three.

He couldn’t remember which he’d been reading. He didn’t really remember _any_ of them.

–-

It had been a month.

Crowley lay in bed, watching the light shift across his ceiling. It was getting warm enough that he might switch to lighter sheets soon. He’d have to do it manually.

He wasn’t looking forward to that.

The rumbling in his stomach finally coaxed him up. He’d hoped to sleep through the whole quarantine, but no luck. Ever since the Apocalypse, he couldn’t really _marathon_ sleep like he’d used to.

On the way to the fridge, he paused to look in on his plants. They trembled, bright green but clearly wilting.

“What’s going on in here?” He snapped, but his heart wasn’t in it. No suitable threats rose in his mind, his expression barely reached mild disgust.

Grabbing the plant mister, he walked around, spritzing all of them. A dangling tendril brushed his face, and he paused, leaning against it with his eyes shut.

–-

Sometimes they called each other. Crowley had convinced Aziraphale to start using a smart telephone right before they locked themselves in. There was a video call option, like in the science fiction films.

“Hello? Crowley? Hello?”

“Hi, Angel. How’s things over there?”

“Hello? You aren’t moving again. Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you fine. It’s just the picture.”

“Ah, it’s going now. Things are, well, much as they’ve always been here. Yourself?”

“What? Sorry, that time it was the sound. Didn’t catch that.”

“I said it’s the same…never mind. What are you having for lunch today?”

“Dunno. I don’t… … … chicken…”

“Crowley? Can you hear me? Crowley?”

“…pie.”

“What was that, dear?”

“PIE!”

“No, before that.”

“Chicken?”

“Oh…never mind.”

–-

Crowley stood in the bathroom.

He was nearly out of that hair product he liked, and now his hair was long enough he didn’t know what to do with it. He'd tried ordering more gel, but it was sold out online every place he looked.

He stepped into the shower. Quick blast of hot water should help wake him up, ease that stiffness in his back muscles.

The warmth of it running across his skin felt better than he could have expected. He stood in the shower until the water turned cold.

–-

Aziraphale had dropped a plate, broken it on the floor.

Yesterday? Last week? There weren’t days anymore, just one endless stretch of time, some of it awake, some of it asleep. Sometimes in one chair, sometimes in the other.

He stepped around the ceramic shards.

While the kettle was steaming, he opened the cupboard to get a tea bag. There were seven left of the regular black tea, the cheap ones; plus three Earl Grey, two Darjeeling. He’d thought there was more.

When he shook himself, he couldn’t remember how long he’d been standing in front of the cupboard. He picked a bag at random and walked back to the kettle.

It was already cold.

–-

Crowley lounged in his chair in front of the television.

He tried that new documentary everyone was talking about, but gave up when it seemed no one was going to be eaten by a tiger.

Next he tried something exciting with zombies in it, but the plot was too complicated. His mind kept wandering, and when it came back, he couldn’t remember which character was supposed to be the love interest.

 _Golden Girls._ He had practically every episode memorized, anyway. He switched on one of his favorites, but the jokes didn’t seem as funny this time.

Tried three different baking shows. Couldn’t tell them apart.

Watched an episode of that one about cleaning your home. It didn’t spark joy.

Finally switched off the set and threw the remote in disgust.

–-

“I know we’ve been through this before, but I’m sure it was never this bad.” Aziraphale sat back in his armchair, telephone pressed to his ear.

“Probably because it’s the first time _we_ had to be quarantined.”

“I suppose.” He shifted, trying to get comfortable. No, that wasn’t the word. All the cushions were as soft as you could imagine, perfectly molded to his body. But it still didn’t feel right. “Do you remember that time, back in the fourteenth century?”

“I try not to.”

Aziraphale sighed. “It’s the waiting, really. I just wish I knew when it would be over.”

“Nh.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Just. Me, too.”

–-

With all this time, Aziraphale had thought he could at _least_ get some cleaning done.

The dishes were piled up in the sink, overflowing. He didn’t think he’d ever used so many, not ever. The sponge was buried somewhere in that pile.

His eyes were very, very wet. He wasn’t sure why. Didn’t feel _sad_ or _tired_ or _frustrated._ Didn’t feel much of anything.

With a sigh he turned, foot crunching again on the broken plate.

He stared at it. He just needed to pick up the pieces. The rubbish bin was three steps away.

Shaking his head, he walked away.

–-

Crowley still lounged in his chair. He was full of nervous energy, but didn’t know what to do with it.

He thought again about changing the sheets. Where were the summer ones? In the closet? Cotton or silk? Only he’d have to pull off the old ones first. Where would he put them? In a pile in the corner? He had a wash machine, he could throw them right in. No laundry detergent, though. He should buy some.

Picking up his phone, he clicked over to the app for one of the online shops. It gave some purchase suggestions, then more, then more. He spent an hour clicking around, filling and emptying his cart.

Didn’t buy anything in the end. Couldn’t remember what he’d been looking for.

He still lounged in his chair.

–-

Aziraphale rested his pen against a piece of paper. He’d kept a journal since they’d realized they were becoming more human. Tracking changes. Analyzing new experiences. Recording everything in case his memory became more human, too.

But there was nothing to write, not today, not any day recently.

What did you say when nothing ever happened? When you didn’t really feel anything different today than you felt yesterday, or the day before?

He tried to draw. He’d never been much for sketching, but now all his imagination provided was an endless series of abstract rectangles.

Aziraphale put the pen aside and leaned down, resting his cheek against the book. The rough texture of the paper felt nice, for a moment at least.

–-

It wasn’t really a nap. Crowley was staring up at the ceiling, mind drifting, when suddenly a knock at the door nearly made him shout in surprise.

Who would _possibly_ be out right now? He wasn’t expecting any packages or food delivered. No one else was supposed to be on the streets.

He grabbed the plant mister, just in case, and opened the door a crack.

An angel stood in the corridor outside, looking very small and pale.

“Aziraphale!”

“I…I know we said we would wait until it was over. It’s only been a month, after all. But I just…I couldn’t…”

Crowley shoved the door open the rest of the way, pulled Aziraphale against him, sank into the warmth of those soft arms, held on tight, as tight as he could, even tighter.

One of them was trembling. Maybe both.

–-

Some time later, they lay on the bed, arms around each other, Aziraphale’s head on Crowley’s shoulder. Not even talking, just listening to the sound of breathing, of heartbeats, soaking in the feel of another warm, living body so close.

“We’re both going to be stuck here now, you know.”

“I suppose we are.” Aziraphale wiggled a little closer, until there wasn’t room for even an _atom_ between them.

“And we’re going to be fighting. Mark my words, this time tomorrow, we’re going to be in the worst sort of row.”

“Oh, yes. Probably over your taste in music.”

“Or something stupid you said.”

“Almost certainly.” His hand found Crowley’s, squeezed it, fingers lacing together. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you're all taking care of yourselves as much as possible right now.
> 
> Stay safe.


End file.
